Array 50 Cent: Baby Brother

“That’s truth, Bip. I’ma let him know that shit too.”

“Yeah. Let him know I been up watching his whip all night, yo. Tell him he owe me! If it wasn’t for me some base-head prolly woulda ran off with his spinners.”

Baby Brother unlocked the car and climbed behind the wheel. It was a quality ride, paid for with cash dollars. Farad had it detailed every three days, and it smelled factory-fresh at all times. He settled into the seat, then slid the key in the ignition and listened to the engine purr.

He drove down the streets of East New York with the top down, driving aimlessly and absorbing the hood vibe. N.J.S. beats blared from the speakers as Reem Raw killed a hot track with illa East Coast lyrics. He rode up Shepherd, crossed Linden Boulevard, and headed toward New Lots. It was early, but niggahs was already out on the hot streets scheming on their next hustle.

Baby Brother nodded at a few familiar faces as he cruised down the block. He stopped at a light on the corner of Hegeman Avenue. A couple of gangsta-looking niggahs with larceny in their eyes grilled him as they walked by. Baby Brother was up on them. He knew what they were thinking and hoped they were smart enough to think again. He was a hard niggah, and good with his hands. He’d come up on the streets and in the gym, trained by his brothers to get in close and handle his.

But with two days left in New York he wasn’t trying to get into nothing hot except some more of Sari’s yummy. He pumped the volume even higher and decided to let Farad’s whip speak loud and clear to anybody who might wanna get smoked.

On the way home he thought a lot about college and about Sari too. Leaving her was gonna be hard, but he knew it would pay off in the end. A degree from Stanford came with certain guarantees, and although he was gonna miss his brothers around, he was grateful for the opportunity to escape the urban jungle. It’s what their mother would have wanted. Their father too.

Pulling over at a corner candy store beneath the Number 3 El, Baby Brother went inside and bought a soda and a bag of pretzels. When he came back out a bunch of kids were admiring Farad’s whip. He let them climb inside and blow the horn and push a few buttons and shit, then he got behind the wheel again and made his way back to The Ville, where his brothers waited.

Priest had just finished his breakfast of buttery grits and eggs when the front door slammed. Three of Farad’s soldiers were posted outside, and relief flooded Priest as he heard familiar footsteps approaching. Baby Brother had stayed in East New York all night long, and even though the kid was eighteen now, Priest still worried about him, especially out there messing around with them treacherous Puerto Ricans.

“Zabu!” he called out, his voice heavy and full of bass. “You late, man. I told you I was gone take you to get some suitcases today, but if you wanna haul your gear to Cali in some black garbage bags, you can do that, you know.”

Despite his bark Priest’s eyes were full of pride as his youngest brother strolled into the kitchen. Just like his six brothers, Baby Brother was tall, with deep mahogany skin and amber eyes. He was muscled up and perfectly cut, and although they all worked out hard, the majestic physique was just part of their genetics.

Priest was the oldest and the most battle-scarred. He had raised the other boys after their mother died, and Baby Brother was his heart. His favorite. His salvation. Priest couldn’t help it. These days he served as an assistant pastor of a small storefront church, operated his own barbershop up on Rockaway Avenue, and gave Bible lessons at a youth center twice a week.

But he had a past that just couldn’t be wiped clean. He had pimped women, slung rock, slumped foes, organized gangs, and hustled the hell outta the game. But looking at Baby Brother killed all those past demons. His little brother was his pride and joy. Hard evidence that despite all the grimy capers Priest had pulled, all the prey he’d bitten, and all the upstate prison time he’d served, that somehow God had favored him and allowed him to redeem himself and do something right. Every time he looked at Baby Brother Priest saw the man that he himself should have been.

“What it do, ’Twan.” Baby Brother gave him some dap on his way to the refrigerator.

“You late, man. I told you we was leaving at nine.”

Baby Brother flashed him a grin and rubbed his stomach. “I’m hungry, tho’. Gotta stick something in my belly before we roll.”

Priest opened the microwave and took out one of four paper plates he’d covered in Saran Wrap. “Here.” He set it on the table. “Put ya face in this and hurry up. I gotta be back for services this afternoon.”

“Aiight. Yo, why’s it so quiet in here? Where is everybody?”

Priest shrugged. “You know the scene, man. When you do your work under the dark of night you gotta regroup when it’s light. The twins are both upstairs. Matter fact, Malik’s gone be here in a minute. Go upstairs and tell them two knuckleheads to get down here and eat.”

Ten minutes later Priest sat at the head of the table watching four of his young brothers grub. Malik had arrived dressed in his NYPD blues, and as they dug into the plates he’d prepared for them Priest couldn’t help but smile inside. It felt good to sit at the same table with his cats. Raheem had taken a trip for the long weekend, and Kadir was down in A.C. doing his thing, but with Baby Brother leaving for college in a couple of days, both of them would be showing up to see him off.

“Snatch ’em!” Malik hollered real loud.

“Guard ya plate!” Baby Brother threw his arms on the table, encircling his breakfast with wary eyes.

“Man, keep your hands off my damn food!” Farad complained, setting his fork down. “I ain’t playin that ‘snatch ’em’ shit today, dawg. You betta chill with that.”

Malik laughed and stuck the stolen slice of turkey bacon in his mouth. “You ain’t gotta play nothing but defense, man. You know the rules, muhfuckah! Lose ya heat, I snatch ya meat!”

Laughter rang out around the table and Farad reacted quickly.

“Snatch ’em!”

Finesse cursed as his twin snatched a crisp slice of bacon off his plate and started crunching.

“You getting slow, niggah,” Farad chuckled. “I coulda got me two pieces off you, yo.”

Priest laughed along with them, but his heart was heavy. He had prayed for a better life for his brothers. Nothing would make him happier than seeing Farad and Finesse out of the game and doing something legitimate with their skills. He’d dreamed of opening a chain of barbershops and installing one of his brothers at the helm of each operation, but Raheem and Malik both had good jobs with benefits, Kadir was hooked on card tables, and neither of the twins was interested in a nine-to-five. Priest stood up and refilled Baby Brother’s glass from a container of juice on the counter.

“So,” he said, looking around the table before nodding at his youngest brother. “Everybody ’bout ready to get rid of this lil son? Ain’t but two days left, then he’s out.”

Finesse shrugged. “I’d rather see him bounce for a minute than have him scrambling yay like them niggahs on the stoop. Damn, B-Brother. You gone be on some real West Coast shit when you get back. You sure you can’t go to school somewhere in New York? Maybe upstate?”

“I can go almost anywhere I wanna go,” Baby Brother said. “But Stanford is giving up the best scholarship package, man. Plus it’s a top school. I’d be crazy to let something like this slide by me.”

Malik nodded, wiping his mouth. “That’s what’s real, man. Graduate from Stanford with a degree in shit shoveling and you still considered a heavyweight in the corporate world. Fuck around with one of these city schools and you might end up working for Transit or coming on the force, or worse—following Ra down to Corrections and getting on over there.” He tossed his plate in the trash. “Cali is a good bet for you. Go for it. We got your back.”